


VI

by Crowgirl



Series: The Cafe [8]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Affection, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the door opens on Friday night, he doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Paul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	VI

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt:
>
>> [@CrowGirl42](https://twitter.com/CrowGirl42) Cafe - end of summer? Probably always a seachange (heh) time in a seaside town and S&A going back to class will add to it.
>> 
>> — Sarah (the 1001st) (@sarahthe1001) [May 10, 2016](https://twitter.com/sarahthe1001/status/729839449690001409)  
> 

The first week or two of term is always a little rough around the edges. This year, Foyle simply removes Andrew from the schedule entirely and leaves Sam only two shifts on Saturday and Tuesday mornings. It leaves him long days, yes, but it will be much easier just to _be_ here rather than keeping his fingers crossed all week that anyone else will actually keep to their schedule. 

It isn’t like he could have gotten much else done, anyway; the week is cold, rainy, windy -- weather that not even Sam could love, though she tries. The positive side to the bad weather, given the fact that Foyle is mostly on his own, is there aren’t many customers -- the regulars make it in, a few students, no-one he doesn’t at least vaguely recognize. It’s a pleasantly quiet week but he is glad he’s not dependent solely on the cafe for income; if he had to pay bills out of what came in this week, he’d be worried. 

So he keeps the lights on, a pot of coffee on, as much for the comfortable smell as anything else, turns on the heat a week early, does some baking when he feels like it, and otherwise takes the time to work through his library list. 

When the door opens on Friday night, he doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Paul. The slight hesitation as Paul waits for the outer door to fall back so he can close it without a bang is a dead giveaway. ‘You really don’t have to do this.’

There’s the rattle of an umbrella. ‘If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t.’ 

Foyle closes his book and looks up. ‘It isn’t even as though there’s very much to be cleaned.’

‘I know.’ Paul drapes his rain jacket on the back of a chair and smiles at him. Foyle notices immediately that he’s walking slowly, his stride slightly shorter than usual; he isn’t actually limping, but it isn’t far off and Foyle schools himself not to frown. He’d asked once and Paul had muttered something about a broken leg and never referred to it again. Foyle knows a closed door when he sees one but he can’t say it hasn’t nagged at him. He’d like to be able to offer sympathy, help, a cushion for Paul’s favorite chair at the very least; and, if he’s honest with himself, very probably more.

Paul leans against the counter, turning Foyle’s book so he can see the cover. ‘Any good?’

‘Mm --’ Foyle shrugs. ‘One of Sam’s friends left it here.’ Joanna Trollope really isn’t his idea of a very good time but it was the choice between that, combing through recipe books, and re-reading this morning’s paper.

Paul makes a noncommittal noise and pushes the book out of the way so he can prop his forearms on the counter and incidentally, Foyle notices, take the weight off his left leg. ‘Anyone come in today at all?’

‘Two or three.’ Foyle twists back on his chair and eyes the coffee pot. ‘I refilled it at least once.’

‘There are dishes then.’ 

‘A few.’ Foyle pauses. He’s been thinking about this conversation on and off all day, knowing Paul would show up at some point during the evening, but he hasn’t come to any conclusions or thought of that _one_ question he needs to ask to get at what he wants to know. And if he’d been hoping Paul’s presence would give him a moment of inspiration -- 

Paul’s eyes are sharp on his face and he makes a move to push himself up. ‘If -- I can get back to Ally’s if you--’

Foyle looks at him for a long moment; it’s interesting that Paul still refers to the apartment as his sister’s, never as _theirs_ or _my place_ or _home_. It’s always her space, her home that she is sharing with him. It’s of a piece, Foyle thinks, with the way he tends towards caution, almost to the point of self-effacement. It’s a train of thought he should pursue -- but it would only lead him to questions he’s reasonably sure Paul isn’t ready to answer and, here and now, Paul is looking edgier by the second. 

Before he can think about it, Foyle reaches across the counter to touch Paul’s hand; it’s meant to be a simple gesture of reassurance but Paul’s eyes flash wide when Foyle’s fingers brush his skin and there’s a sudden smear of color in his cheeks. 

There’s silence for a moment, the only audible sound the rush of wind outside, then Paul clears his throat and turns his hand over, gathering Foyle’s fingers in his palm and letting his own close gently over them.

Foyle can think of nothing better to do than put his other hand over Paul’s and, once their fingers are slotted together and his fingertips resting in the hollow of Paul’s wrist, it doesn’t seem that important to figure out exactly how to word whatever question it was he had in mind. ‘I thought --’ He has to stop and clear his throat because his voice sounds rough even to him; God only knows what he sounds like to Paul. And once he’s stopped, he can’t seem to start again. He finds himself studying their hands and the whole thing seems suddenly unreal. Whatever it is that seems to be happening between himself and Paul… It wasn’t something he’d imagined happening, that he’d expected or considered. He’s used to being saved by forethought, years of the ingrained habits of anticipation and observation, skills that work without his having to think about them but this -- it had just _happened_ and perhaps his questions are less for Paul and more for himself. 

‘Yes,’ Paul says, his cheeks still stained bright. ‘I mean -- unless you’re suggesting murder but -- anything else. Yes.’ 

Foyle swallows. ‘I’ve no-one I wish to murder at the minute. I was thinking more of a cup of tea.’ Christ, he sounds old and, in that particular moment, he _feels_ old. It isn’t a feeling he has often but now it lands on him like a weight. He closes his eyes for a second, cursing himself, and prepares to feel Paul pull away, probably not laugh at him because Paul isn’t _cruel_ but-- ‘What?’

‘I said I found you a new recipe.’ Paul pulls one hand free but it’s only to fish in his jeans pocket for a folded piece of paper. He drops it on the counter and immediately slips his hand back under Foyle’s. ‘I thought you might like to test it out tonight. Since it is so quiet.’

Foyle moves to free a hand, unfold the sheet of paper, but he pauses before he moves, looks at their hands,... and stays still. ‘Well, since it isn’t murder. Yes.’


End file.
